“What do you mean, sir?” shouted the latter, with a face that was white and red by turns, but then he added, or seemed to add, “I’ll pick all the pockets in this car if I choose.”
“You will, will you?” exclaimed the big man, in a voice whose lion-like depth of “roar” contrasted strangely with the tones of his previous remark. “I didn’t say you had picked any pockets, but I don’t mean you shall, either.”
“I didn’t say that,” began the flashy man, but his next words were, “and I’ve dropped hers on the floor.”
With that he put on such a look of abject terror as no human face can possibly counterfeit, and sprang away from his place, crying out:
“It must be the devil!”
“Very likely,” responded the big man, as he started in pursuit, but there were other hands extended, and the frightened runaway was brought to an immediate stand.
Meantime, the ladies, scarcely less astonished than the pickpocket, had been making a hurried search.
“I have indeed lost my pocketbook, Sibyl,” said the elder.
“And there it is, mother, on the floor, just where he said he had dropped it,” exclaimed Sibyl, but at that very moment Bar Vernon was picking it up.
“Thank you, sir,” said Sibyl, as she took it in her hand, but Bar replied: